


21

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam's Birthday, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fic, The Barns (Raven Cycle), Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Ronan rips the bedroom curtains open at 8 fucking AM, and in that moment Adam hates him more than he ever has before. He also hates the sun. But the sun can’t control itself. Ronan Lynch sure as hell could if he tried.





	21

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon on Tumblr from [ this list](http://purrincesscatitude.tumblr.com/post/179261036240/prompts-list): “how much did you drink?”

Over the past 4 years, Adam has wanted to murder Ronan Niall Lynch more times than he can count. The morning of his 21st birthday, Adam contemplates in earnest what it would take to kill him. 

Ronan rips the bedroom curtains open at 8 fucking AM, and in that moment Adam hates him more than he ever has before. He also hates the sun. But the sun can’t control itself. Ronan Lynch sure as hell could if he tried.

“Wakey, wakey, birthday boy,” Ronan sings.

Adam stands corrected: _this_ is the moment he hates him the most.

“Fuck you,” Adam groans, digging the heels of his hands into his throbbing eyes.

“You had quite the night.”

“I know.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Too much.” He grits his teeth against the pounding hangover headache and shoves his face deeper into the pillow.

Ronan barks out a laugh. “No shit.”

4th of July falls on a Sunday this year, which means it’s observed on a Saturday, which means Gansey & Blue can’t spend Adam’s birthday with them because they’re required to attend the Ganseys’ annual God Bless America Political Circle Jerk aka their Independence Day BBQ for boozy schmoozing, which means they had to celebrate the night before and ring in Adam’s 21st birthday at midnight like New-Year’s-In-July.

“Is this how you felt after every bender?” Adams mumbles into the down pillows, “because good Lord how did you survive?”

“I’m offended you think I can’t handle my fucking alcohol.”

Ronan presents a tray–a _breakfast_ tray, that bougie asshole–with a steaming coffee mug (“This is probably whiskey” written in white curling script along the black matte glaze), two glasses of water, a plastic tiara with a glittery gold “21”, and plate of runny scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and toast.

He’s kind enough to sit up so Ronan can set down the tray, and even puts the tiara on without needing to be pestered. But the food? Adam nearly retches.

“You’re going to reject the birthday breakfast I slaved over this morning?” Ronan gasps, clutching his chest. “How could you, you heartless bastard?”

“Shut up.” Adam shoves him weakly, nearly unsettling the tray.

A bottle of Advil and a package of powdered Pedialyte sits next to the glasses of water. He swallows the pills dry, lets Ronan mix the Pedialyte into the water, which he chugs in full. It does make him feel a little better.

Adam grabs the buttered toast at the edge of the plate: the only food that doesn’t make his stomach turn. Ronan tilts the blinds so they filter at least a little bit of sun. Adam’s melodramatic sigh of relief makes Ronan snicker.

Ronan clamors into bed beside Adam. He left a few inches open at the bottom of the window, knowing from experience that fresh air would help keep the nausea at bay, so he watches birds dart through the thick summer haze and carpenter bees bumble drowsily past while Adam nibbles at the edges of the toast.

Adam finishes the slice, and follows Ronan’s gaze out the window. He takes a deep breath. Ronan knows that sound, knows Adam’s readying himself to say something, something that probably isn’t pleasant. Every birthday there's something. Ronan has come to expect it, even accepts it as inevitable and necessary; let Adam avoid his gaze for a minute and exorcise whatever shitty memory has reared its ugly head so they can bury it and make room for better ones. It’s a slow process, but Ronan is holding out hope that eventually a year will come when the bad memories are flimsy, insubstantial, unimportant things compared to the joyful, vibrant memories they've made together. And that year, Adam will take that deep breath and look Ronan in the eye and say one of those happy memories instead.

But they aren’t quite there yet. So Ronan lets Adam look away, waits patiently while Adam prepares himself to bare another scar.

“When I turned 16,” he says softly, face a careful neutral as his fingers fidget with the seams of the comforter, “my dad got mad that I had spent my tip money from the garage on one of those Choco Tacos ice cream things you get at the 7-11. A treat for myself, I guess. Seemed like a nice idea at the time. But he was…pissed for some stupid reason already. Probably that I hadn’t, like, I dunno, put the wrench back in the box or something, or had left my summer reading out where he could see it. Like I was bragging about having to read _Madame Bovary_ or some shit. Whatever. He was mad, got madder, and…I remember laying in bed that night, fresh shiner, a new scar–right here,” he points to the burn scar Ronan found on the inside of his bicep a few years ago as he was kissing it up and down, “and telling myself that if I made it to 21, I’d be the luckiest kid of all time.”

Ronan takes his hand, interlaces their fingers together, and brings them to his lips. Adam turns to look at him, a small smile dancing at the corners of his mouth.

“And here I am: 21 and hungover as _fuck_.”

Ronan laughs. “Not feelin so lucky now, huh?”

“If I wasn’t still sort of tipsy right now, I think I’d count myself very lucky.”

Ronan laughs even harder. Adam does too, even if it hurts his head and makes him queasy.

“You’re un-fucking-believable,” Ronan says as he wipes a tear from his eye.

“Don’t try to tell me you’ve never woken up drunk before,” Adam scoffs. “I’ve seen you drink.”

“I’m not claiming I haven’t. But you’re Adam Fucking Parrish. And you drank so much that you’re still drunk the next day.”

“Technically I only got, what, four hours of sleep? Does that even count as the next day?”

“Sure it does.”

“And one standard drink takes an hour to leave your system, and I had...8 and a quarter drinks? So…”

“Nerd.”

Tendrils of steam curl up from the coffee. It’s probably psychological, but the smells makes Adam’s head hurt a little less so he takes a sip. It tastes like a shot, makes him grimace and shiver like one, too.

“Did you put _Jameson_ in this?” he coughs.

Ronan smiles and waggles his eyebrows. “Did you not read the mug?”

“God, I hate you so much.” 

Ronan loops his arm around his shoulder and plants a kiss on his cheek. He presses the 21 on the tiara. “Happy Birthday” plays for ten bars, and then “Murder Squash” interrupts at triple the volume. Adam startles and cringes, ripping the crown off and throwing it across the room.

“You are such an asshole,” he grumbles, but nestles into Ronan’s embrace anyways.

“Welcome to motherfucking adulthood, Parrish,” Ronan replies with a satisfied smile.

They cheers with a strip of bacon and the second triangle of toast.

“Glad you made it this far,” Ronan says, and he means it. “Very fucking glad.”

“Same,” Adam replies. “So since neither of us want me to die today, can you make me some real coffee?”

“Not until you’ve finished this cup. Waste not want not.”

Adam groans, but he didn’t raise himself to be a quitter. He chugs it, and sticks the empty mug in Ronan’s face. “Now?”

Ronan stares with his mouth agape, blush high along his cheeks, and pupils blown wide. “That was…possibly the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

“One, you’re weird. Two, I swear to God, I will puke all over you if we have sex right now.”

“Fine. You win. Coffee’s all yours.”

A compromise: Adam lets him steal a kiss before he goes back downstairs with a lot of tongue and a lot of fire that Ronan clearly means as a taste of what's to come once he's not violently hungover. Ronan flashes him a smile on his way out the door to confirm it. Adam's pretty sure this will be one of the best birthdays he's ever had. 

And on his 30th birthday, he’ll turn to Ronan as they lay in bed with two daughters asleep between them, and he’ll ask with a smile if he remembers the morning of his 21st birthday. Ronan most certainly will. 


End file.
